


Plastic Heart

by SierraLaufeyson13



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Smut, One Shot, Pre-John Wick (2014), Thirsty for Keanu Reeves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraLaufeyson13/pseuds/SierraLaufeyson13
Summary: John Wick works alone. He doesn't have partners -except for her.





	Plastic Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Are we fated, faithful, or fatal?

THE hotel room was lit by the city lights and the occasional flash of lightning across a dark sky. Rain pattered against the window. Rough fingers trailed up her thigh, hiking up the slinky red dress. The thin material was soaked and clung to every curve and dimple.

John fingered the empty holster hidden by the high split of the dress. It was empty now. A set of throwing knives buried in the chest and throat of some poor fool who thought they could collect a bounty on her ward.  
  
"Do you always wear this thing?" He asked, voice low and husky. John already knew the answer to his question, though. People like them didn't lead normal lives, and every evening dress wasn't complete without either a small pistol or set of throwing knives.  
  
The velcro of the holster gave with a single pull, landing next to a pair of black stilettoes with blood-red soles. His lips connected with her neck. Dylan leaned her head back against the wall, fingers tangling into John's dark wet hair. "Jonathan," she breathed, heart racing. A thin red strap slipped off her shoulder, followed by the other. John reached around to the bow of her back, finding dress's zipper.  
  
Her hands slipped from his hair and the dress slid down her body. A red puddle of satin. John Wick's eyes were naturally dark, but in the low light of the room upon seeing her standing before him in nothing but a black garter and stocking, they looked like two black pits.

Dylan pushed the damp suit jacket off broad shoulders. The black silk of his tie slid through her fingers like a curtain of cool water. She wound the tie around her hand and pulled him farther into the room.

John gripped onto her hips, closing the distance between them and turned. The back of his knees hit the foot of the bed. He sat, pulling her down with him. A hand slid up her bare back, another up her side, fingers grazing the underside of her breast. The coarse hair of his beard scraped against her cheek and neck as she worked the black-tie free.

Nimble fingers made quick work of the first three buttons of his shirt. Her progress was stunted when his lips met hers, harsh and needy. John swallowed the soft gasp she made. He groaned when she bit down on his bottom lip, one of her hands moving down his chest.

Dylan pulled her hand back when she touched something warm and slick. She knew by feel alone that it was blood. With a heavy sigh, she glanced down and found that front of his white dress shirt was stained red. Just above the belt of his trousers was where the blood came from. He'd been shot but hadn't said a word about it. "John!" She scolded, clambering off his lap to switch on the bedside lamp. "You could've told me you'd taken a fucking hit!"

He fell back onto the mattress, dark eyes focusing on the white ceiling as he finished undoing the last four buttons of the ruined shirt. "Because-" he glanced over to her and felt his blood grow hot again. Seeing her in that red dress all night had driven him crazy with lust "-there are other things on my mind at the moment."  
  
"You're unbelievable," Dylan told him with an exaggerated roll the eye as she picked up the phone to call down to the front desk. There were two rings before someone picked up the other line. "Is the doctor in?" She asked.

"The doctor is always in, miss," Charon answered. "Shall I send him up?"

She glanced at John. "Yes, please."

"Is that all you require this evening?" The concierge asked.

"It is," Dylan answered before placing the phone back on its base. She wandered to the bathroom and returned with a hand-towel, which she tossed onto the bed next to him. "I don't want you bleeding all over the sheets."

He mumbled something under his breath low enough that she wouldn't be able to hear it. But in the meantime, he folded the towel and held it against his side. "I've had worse than this," John commented. So had she, but Dylan Petrov knew better than to refuse proper attention when it was readily available.

She grabbed a charcoal sweater from John's bag and pulled it overhead. From her own discarded holster, she produced two gold coins. "This time's on me," she told him, holding the coins between her fingers.

The doctor arrived promptly and began working after he'd laid out the tools of his trade. Silence hung in the air while he worked, only punctured by a soft grunt every once in a while from John.

He'd dug the slug from the wound, cleaned it, and patched it up properly with efficacy spawning from years of practice. The doctor rose and wiped his hands on a napkin. "You're looking at a few weeks for a full recovery," he said. That meant a few weeks of minimal activity and changing the dressing twice a day.

John glanced over at Dylan, his eyes tracing up the length of her legs as she stood at the bar cart, pouring them both drinks. The doctor followed John's gaze and looked back to him with a vexed expression as he packed up unused gauze and tape. "I'd keep rigorous activity to a minimum," he noted, pocketing the two gold coins.

John Wick nodded and the doctor showed himself out.   
  
Dylan curled up against the pillows and watched as he undid the black leather belt around his waist. Seconds later the black slacks slipped down his legs, long and lean. He tossed them over the back of one of the chairs. She passed John a glass of straight Kentucky Bourbon as he sat next to her on the bed. "Happy?" John asked. He downed the bourbon and set the empty glass on the nightstand, bending forward to take off his socks.

"I can't lose my partner." She swirled the Scotch around in the tumbler before taking another sip. It burned going down but sent warmth racing to her core.

"I work alone," he noted, rolling onto his uninjured side to face her.

"Mhm." Dylan shook her head with a smirk. "That must explain how we always end up in situations like this." They had a history. One that didn't start on the best of terms, but time had changed that story. Wick and Petrov had grown to be two of the most infamous names among the Continental. She took another sip of her Scotch, eyes chasing the faded scars on his arms and chest.

His hand slid up her thigh, pushing his sweater out of the way until he could undo the small bow holding up the sheer black stockings. There was still a dark glint in his eyes. Dylan swatted his hand. "You heard what the doc said, Mr. Wick. No rigorous activities." The black stockings still roll down her legs.

John ignored her, just as he had pushed aside the words of the doctor. He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and placed his lips against hers. The bourbon on his breath was sweeter than the rye whiskey. He pulled back, forehead still resting against hers. "Then we'll take it slow." The words danced over her lips, tiny kisses in themselves.

He found the bedside lamp and flicked it off. Darkness consumed the hotel room again. The rain hadn't stopped, neither had the thunder. John's hand slipped beneath the hem of the grey sweater, the back of his fingers brushing over her breasts as he tugged it overhead. Dylan sighed and smoothed her fingertips across his brow.

"John," she breathed, hands slipping over his broad shoulders and down his tapered back. Some welts seemed tender and would be dark shades of purple and blue in the morning. His muscles extend and contract under her palms. Words were forming at the tip of her tongue, but they're lost when his hand slid beneath the black elastic band of her panties.

A strangled noise caught between a moan and a yelp escaped her lips when he slid two fingers in her core. John's dark eyes were burning into her, watching her lips part in silent gasps and brows knit together.

He kissed down her neck, lightly. Her head lolled to the side, offering her neck and shoulder to his torments. His fingers curled inward and brought Dylan's back arching up off the bed. He took the opportunity to slide the black lace down and off her legs.

She reached out, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him to her mouth. "No teasing, John," Dylan's words came out as a rough whisper. His fingers stopped working her and slid free. She whimpered at the loss and the loss of his heat against her.

The weight on the bed shifted as he pushed his boxers down and off. John settled between her legs. He braced himself on his forearms and kissed the swell of her breasts, hips rolling into hers. Dylan spread her legs, draping one of them over his waist. "Fuck." The curse came out from behind his teeth as a hiss when he sank into her. She shifted her hips up, impatient.

"You know what that red dress does to me?" He was at her ear, and the question was perforated with soft grunts.

"Mmm-" Dylan pushed her hands through his hair, meeting his slow, deep thrusts "-why do you think I wear it so often?" A low sound in deep in his throat sounded like a growl. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and gave the skin a tentative bite.

There was a sharp ache in his side, but he pointedly ignored it and reached behind him to readjust the leg Dylan had thrown around his hips. "John." His name a prayer upon her parted lips.

He watched her tremble under him, and the slow, rhythmic thrusts grew faster. She could see it in his eyes. He was losing control. John Wick was a patient man. But something was satisfying about seeing him break and being the cause.

Dylan's nails dug into his shoulders and biceps. Her brows were permanently knitted together with soft pants and moans filling the silence between claps of thunder. His jaw clenched, thrusts became erratic and then frantic when she tightened around him. Profanities and breathy cries of his name left her lips. His last thrust was sharp and deep.

His head hung forward, body relaxing. Dylan steadied her breathing and traced the tattoo on his left shoulder. John heaved a deep sigh and rolled off onto the empty side of the bed. He pressed his hand against the bandage on his waist and found it damp with fresh blood. "You didn't listen to me," she said, almost laughing.

"You didn't stop me either," John countered.

"No." A satisfied smile crossed over her lips. Lightning flashed outside the window, filling the room with bright light for a brief second.

She turned onto her side and brushed the hair from his face. John leaned forward and Dylan met him in the middle. The kiss was slow, lingering, and sweet. A sigh escaped her lips when they parted. "You know," she started, "someone offered me a four million dollar contract to kill you." She was the last resort, no one else was willing to go after Jonathan Wick.

"I was offered six," he replied with the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Loyalty couldn't be sold. They'd both saved each other's asses more than a handful of times.

Dylan ran her thumb over the bruise beginning to surface on his cheek. They'd both look and feel like hell come the morning. "Thanks for not taking the cash, partner." A low chuckle rose in his chest. John draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.


End file.
